


Yusuf the Enlightened, or: that one time people paid him the respect he deserves

by Hoeratius



Series: One night in Paris [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Also featuring: Nicky looking like a snack, Gen, Paris (City), Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoeratius/pseuds/Hoeratius
Summary: Montmartre, Paris, 1895. A series of mysterious deaths leads the Guard to a secret society, which seeks to blur the boundaries between this world and the next. At an undercover mission, Joe enjoys a moment of fame with the ridiculous backstory that got them invited to this party.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: One night in Paris [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931623
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Yusuf the Enlightened, or: that one time people paid him the respect he deserves

‘What’s this?’ Nile turned a sheet of thick, creamy paper over in her hands. One side showed an ink drawing of the Guard in outlandish dress: Nicky sporting a cravat and extremely regrettable moustache; Joe in elaborate robes with a curved sword dangling from his hip; and Andy standing tall and regal, dressed in a Greek gown and leafy headpiece. A disembodied hand rested on Andy’s waist, the rest of the person torn off.

The other side carried an invitation:

> _Yusuf al-Kaysani,_
> 
> _You are cordially invited to a soirée with the Society of the Silver Rose, at 7 Rue Dancourt, September 28._
> 
> _Walk in the Light_.

‘Oh, I remember that.’ Joe grinned as he took the paper from her. ‘Armand drew it. Great night.’

Nile sat down by the fire, resting her chin in her hands, ready for a story. ‘What happened?’

‘A job,’ said Nicky, at the same time that Andy snatched the invitation from Joe and muttered, ‘Nothing.’

***

** YUSUF **

***

> _Villefort Heir found in P_ _ère Lachaise_
> 
> _Isidore de Villefort (31), the son of the Marquis de Villefort, was found dead in front of his family_ _’s mausoleum in Père Lachaise on the morning of September 19th. This is the twelfth incident since January where a seemingly unharmed, perfectly healthy young person has been found waiting for the family tomb. The police repeat their requests for information. Isidore’s mother, Isabelle de Villefort-Caderousse, spoke to…_

I lowered yesterday’s edition of _Le Matin_ to watch Émile take the seat across from me. Dressed in last night’s dinner jacket and surrounded by a waft of cigar smoke so fragrant it tickled the inside of my nose, he looked in need of a double espresso. I held up three fingers to Pierre, folded up the paper and pushed it to the side, or as much as I could on these tiny, round tables that had become fashionable for reasons still unknown to me decades later.

‘Can’t believe you’re up already.’ Émile stifled his yawn behind a sleeve that had probably been held together by an expensive cuff link at the start of last night but now hung open to reveal his pale wrist. ‘It’s a Friday, Yusuf.’

‘It’s half eight. I’m not young and energetic like you,’ I said. ‘We senior citizens need to be in bed by nine or we fall asleep where we stand.’

‘Is this because of my impending birthday?’ he said. ‘Are you preparing me for the decline of my late twenties? Or - what are you? Thirty-five?’

‘It’s your knees,’ I said, as Pierre placed the coffee on our table. Pouring in a hefty dose of sugar, I added: ‘They never feel quite the same again. That, and your lower back.’

Émile grumbled something I didn’t understand and pulled the double espresso towards him, inhaling deeply over the steaming cup. I gave him a couple of seconds, tracing my finger over the news report that lent a new urgency to this meeting. Another one already. The fifth since we’d got back. It seemed like a small problem in a city so ridden with crime as Paris, but I could not help but wonder – could we have prevented this if we’d acted more quickly?

‘So,’ I said, pushing the paper across the table. ‘Have you seen this?’

With trembling fingers – whether from the hangover, sleep deprivation, sudden caffeine intake, or emotion, it was impossible to tell – Émile placed his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose and bent forward. What little colour his face had had drained away while he read. ‘I hadn’t.’

‘Did you know Isidore?’

‘Not well,’ he said. ‘Seen him here and there, but we never talked. Silent type.’

‘Do you know if he spent a lot of time with Guillaume?’ That was last week’s victim, but I could rattle off a few more: ‘Christian? Adelaïde?’

‘I think… _Mon dieu_ , I’m not awake enough to think. Give me a second.’

I pushed my coffee towards him. Émile accepted it with a nod, and swallowed, but did not drink just yet. Looking at me from narrowed eyes, he said, ‘I don’t know myself, but I know who to ask. I’ve heard rumours… A strange crowd, all obsessed with death and life and the next world and that stuff.’

‘Could you get me in?’

He took a long, laboured breath. ‘Maybe. I might have to lie about you a bit, get them interested. They’re all properly weird so it might be a bit far-fetched, some dramatic back story... You happy to follow whatever I make up?’

Despite everything, I grinned.

**

‘Could you stop that?’ Andromache glared at the invitation I kept tapping against my leg, as we waited in the stairwell in front of a set of closed, double doors. Not a whisper of the other side broke through this wooden guard, not even the ringing of the bell.

Maybe we’d got the address wrong.

To appease Andromache and my own doubts, I folded open the creamy paper and checked the curly handwriting. Nope. This was where we were supposed to be. I brushed my scimitar, which the tailor had insisted my costume required. Apparently Girardet had ordered three for himself, and he was the connoisseur with regards to oriental fashion. I just hoped it wouldn’t get me kicked out of this apartment block for breaking the peace.

Nico pulled the bell again. We all stood silent for a moment, waiting if we heard anything this time.

No luck.

‘Don’t forget, this is an intel mission,’ said Andromache, while Nico lifted the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and brought it down hard. ‘Only strike if it saves someone immediately. Don’t draw attent–’

The door opened a crack, kept back by an iron latch from behind which a piano sonata escaped, accompanied by the gentle murmur of Parisian society. One French eye studied us from the crack, looking down his nose at us even though all of us towered at least half a foot over him.

With the habitual _dédain_ of the Parisian, he raised his eyebrow and looked at Sébastien. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I certainly hope so,’ I said, handing over my invitation.

A snake-like hand slipped forward and snatched the paper from my fingers, disappearing behind the door. We all waited in the continued, awkward silence when the lock clicked shut and it appeared we had lost our way in.

Andromache stretched her neck to examine the wrought-iron stairs, already bundling her skirt higher up her legs. ‘We can go via the roof.’

As it turned out, we did not have to. Another click, and the door opened again to the same servant. No less grumpy about our arrival, he nevertheless handed me back the invitation with a bow. ‘Good evening, monsieur al-Kaysani. It is an honour to welcome you and your entourage.’

My entourage. Even without looking, I could tell how the others responded just from the shifts in the air: Andromache’s impatience, Sébastien’s amusement, and Nico - I glanced just in time to see the little smirk disappear. Being here in the official capacity of my servant, he kept closer than my shadow when we entered.

The porter stepped aside, and the party began.

Andromache and Sébastien split from us immediately; keeping a low profile next to someone dressed like a minor member of a Sultan’s court was a challenge even for someone as elusive as Andromache. They blended into the crowd almost immediately, beautiful and fashionable enough to look as if they spent all their nights at events like this.

‘Where do you want to start?’ I asked Nico, scanning the room. ‘Émile said the host is called Luc Dantès. Tall, skinny, blond, looks like a modern-day Hermes.’

‘That describes half the men in this room,’ he said.

‘Let’s narrow it down, then,’ I said. ‘If you were an evil genius killing your friends in cemeteries, where would you hang out at this party?’

‘The shadows, watching the new arrival.’

And these rooms did not want for shadows. Instead of walls, crooks and crannies signalled the limits of the party, velvet curtains and clouds of tobacco shielding the guests from one another. Many of the men were dressed in the same dark, sombre suit that Sébastien and Nico wore, a homogeneous tribute to their outsider aesthetic. Even the women had a predilection for black and charcoal. Here and there, a burst of saffron, emerald, or pearly white brightened up the darkness.

And then there was me, in vermilion robes, hair and beard fragrant with oils, a foreign weapon on my hip: a spark of life amongst these ashes.

A waiter sauntered over and offered us crystal glasses bubbling with champagne. I shook my head, but Nico accepted one. He didn’t drink, though, which was probably for the better; I did love the taste of champagne on his lips and right now, I had to concentrate.

‘Let’s see if we can mingle,’ I said. ‘Someone here must know this Luc.’

I’d just selected a small group – youths, energetic, excited – when a booming voice brought an end to any sliver of anonymity I might have had.

‘Yusuf! Yusuf, my man! What are you doing here?’

Nico’s fingers clenched around the flute as if it were a knife, but relaxed when the smiling, broad face of Armand hurried towards us. Like everyone else, his garb sucked all the light from his surroundings, but the blue tips of his fingers hinted at the man I knew from the Musée de l’Orangerie.

We clasped hands. ‘Armand. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

‘Roland in here,’ he said, his round cheeks beaming with excitement. ‘My True name is Roland.’

‘Of course,’ I said, nodding. So people here switched names. That was inconvenient in our search for Luc, but reassuring if we needed to hide our footsteps later. ‘I’m still Yusuf. My parents got it right the first time.’

‘I’m not surprised. And you –’ He turned to Nico and grabbed his free hand with as much enthusiasm as he had shown for me. ‘A face I would recognise out of thousands.’

My heart skipped a beat, but Nico revealed no such fear. ‘I’m afraid I can’t return that compliment, monsieur.’

‘Nobody wants to draw this gob,’ said Armand, gesturing at his face. ‘But I can see why Yusuf can’t get enough of yours. Such strong features – you could have modelled for Cabanel, Caravaggio, Michelangelo…’

I smiled. ‘Yes, they don’t make them like this anymore.’

‘You two look fantastic.’ Armand took a step back, taking us in from Nico’s pomaded crown to the hem of my robes. He caught sight of the invitation in my hand and reached for it. ‘Would you mind if I sketched you? As a memento?’

‘What, now?’

‘You don’t dress like this when you come to the Atelier. And you never bring him.’

‘Of course,’ said Nico. His smile was that of a simple, flattered soul, but as he placed his hand on my shoulder, I sensed his surveillance. With this excuse to stand still and observe, he thrived. Meanwhile, after I’d handed Armand our invite and he’d taken out his fountain pen, I began digging.

‘I didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff,’ I said.

‘It’s what first drew me to art. To reflect the world not as she seems, but as she is. All my paintings can be read that way.’ He glanced up from the sheet, brown eyes intent. ‘The Symbols are the point.’

‘What do they signify? Could you give an example?’

He gave a minute shake of his head. ‘If it were that easy, I wouldn’t have put it in Symbols.’

‘Aha.’ That made zero sense. I was pretty sure that made no sense.

‘Truth does not come into the world naked, but clothed in images and mystery,’ he said, with the heavy resignation of someone who has pondered the issue on many a sherry-fed night in his studio.

Right. Cool.

As an experienced model, Nico kept his features free of the bafflement that I knew had to be written all over my face, no Symbols needed.

I wasn’t sure about this new side of Armand, who I’d always known as an eager, if not overly talented, painter. His work, usually featuring a combination of rustic leisure and the looming factories of industrialisation, had never struck me as containing a grander meaning than a complaint against the modern age that I’d heard a thousand times before. Depending on how tonight went, I might have to pay more attention to the figures in the painting. Perhaps I’d recognise any of them against tonight’s guest list.

‘So how did you end up here?’ Armand asked. ‘I’ve not seen you before.’

‘Friend of a friend,’ I said. I caught Andromache’s eye across the room; she was talking to one of the many fashionable undertakers at the party, and raised her eyebrows just high enough that I knew what she was asking. Giving her a shake of my head that could be interpreted as cocking my ears to listen to Armand, I said, ‘Speaking of which – I’d like to thank the host for inviting me. Do you know where he is?’

‘Luc? Oh yeah, he’s…’ He cast his eyes over the room, until he found one of the young Hermeses. ‘That’s him, with the red cravat. It’s his apartment.’

I checked just long enough to create my mental picture: dark blond, neat moustache, with cheekbones so sharp they could contend with Andromache’s axe. Easy enough to find again if I needed to.

Nico would be able to follow him inconspicuously throughout the night. Well, as inconspicuous as anyone could be while looking like _that_. The moustache suited him. As did the black suit and the darkened hair. He really did become quite dashing the moment he made any effort whatsoever…

I dragged my gaze away from him. Now was not the time. Still, with our backs towards the wall, there was nothing stopping me from resting my hand against the curve of his ass. He shifted his weight just a little bit, his expression pure innocence while Armand immortalised us.

‘There we are.’ Armand blew over the ink, admiring his work. He held it up for us to see and I blushed: even if the few strokes of blue, Armand had succeeded in showing a glint in my eye that would betray me for years to come. He’d failed to get Nico’s nose right – but then that arch required a labour of love. Even Michelangelo had struggled there.

Nico’s weight shifted again, away from my hand, and I followed his gaze: Luc was moving across the room, towards a wooden door in the back, glancing over his shoulder like someone with a secret. With a tap of my fingers against his fine, firm butt cheeks, I let Nico know I’d noticed and was on it.

‘That’s fantastic, Armand,’ I said loudly, opening my arms to take up as much space and visibility as I could. I placed an arm around Armand’s shoulders, gesturing like an Italian as I admired his work and Nico slipped away behind our backs. ‘Any Symbols hiding in this?’

Armand slapped me on the back. ‘You know exactly what this signifies. Now, tell me about you. The robes, what’s up with that?’

‘Oh, those.’ I raised my voice, drawing the looks of some bystanders. Time to whip out that back story Émile had so gleefully devised for me. ‘Well, as you know, Armand, I’m from the east, where certain wisdom has been collected for centuries. On my travels through Persia, I reached enlightenment, and now I wish to share this with the rest of the world.’

‘Oh wow,’ he said, eyes widening. ‘You’ve been to Persia? I’ve only ever met people who reached it through astral projection, which –’

_Excuse me?_

I blinked, but otherwise managed to hide my incredulity, I hoped. ‘Astral projection?’

‘Luc is fantastic at it. He’s travelled the whole world,’ said Armand. As he spoke, he turned towards the crowd again, searching no doubt for our host. Others followed his gaze. Nico, moving through the shadows, froze, and the door Luc had left through fell shut. Depending on the delicacy of the lock and security situation on the other side, Nico would need a better distraction if he wanted to disappear.

‘Oh, astral projection, astral projection!’ I swivelled away from Armand, puh-ing and pah-ing as I strode through the room like Louis XIV. Wrapping myself in my embroidered new past, I declared to all who would listen: ‘Astral projection to this world is child’s play. When I was in the East, I learnt to travel between this world and the next.’

I had them now. Even the pianist had fallen silent.

That wasn’t good; I needed noise, mumbling, music, to muffle the sounds of Nico breaking in. And where were the others?

‘Yes, it is true,’ I said, turning around slowly so as to look each and every listener in the eyes. ‘I was hoping I might come here and learn something of that fabled society in Paris, but it seems you are the ones that must learn. Oh, play on, play on, musician! For music is the surest conduit to the spirit realm!’

I didn’t have to say that twice. With a new urgency, the pianist resumed his work, closing his eyes as if this rapture had already taken him to the next plane. Good idea. ‘Close your eyes, ye who wish to travel Beyond. Let me guide you, as I was guided from the mountains of Persia to the flowing Styx.’

‘So it is true,’ breathed a young man, whose attempt at a moustache lacked the dedication his eyebrows showed in sprouting thick, dark hair. His ruddy cheeks glowed as he stepped towards me. ‘The Sage has arrived.’

‘Do not call me the Sage,’ I said, scoffing, and he hung his head in shame. Better not to draw any connections to whatever messiah they expected; it wouldn’t be the first time a lack of new scriptural knowledge had tripped up a mission. Yet like an actor drenched in admiration, I got a taste for the dramatic. And it tasted good. ‘You may call me by my name. Yusuf the Enlightened.’

Armand fell to his knees beside me, which was awkward and something I’d have to work around next time I bumped into him in our favourite delicatessen. Others followed his example, leaving their little groups to form a circle around me.

Distraction: complete.

I glanced over the heads of my audience. Nico stared back at me, his eyes like the choppy waves of the North Sea, and then he opened the door Luc had left through. Whatever lay behind, he would be safe; these people weren’t warriors.

Still, something clenched tight in my chest as the door closed behind him.

‘What did you see on the other side?’ a woman asked. The giant black feather poking out from her hair trembled with emotion, and before I could answer, her real question slipped out: ‘Have you seen Philippe?’

‘I have not,’ I said. But the heartbreak on her face was more than I could bear. ‘His spirit was in a further celestial ring. I can – I can sense that now, now that I see you. Because your souls are still so connected.’

She let out a sigh so deep, I feared the might faint, and indeed the tall man beside her guided her to a chair. Poor woman. A maid already hurried towards her with smelling salts.

A young girl, dressed in some kind of French-Egyptian dress, stepped forward and brushed her fingers over my sleeve in reverence. ‘But what was it like?’

A thousand years of theories about the afterlife clamoured for precedence in my memory. None of them seemed suitable for this audience. ‘It’s very complex. Not physical, the way we imagine it, but with everything interconnected and in its own, just space. And everything feels like… Like…’ To go for something serious, or to see how they would interpret these symbols? Part of me considered describing the afterlife like the stringy connections that hold together the inside of a mozzarella, but I was on a job. The sublime fit me better than the ridiculous, at least for tonight. ‘Like a cloud of smoke spreads through the air and your lungs, its scent lingering long after our human eyes have ceased to see.’

‘But with souls?’ the girl asked.

‘Y-yes. But with souls.’

‘That’s not what Lévi said,’ said another man.

‘Lévi did not interpret the Symbols correctly,’ I said, to shocked whispers all around. Shit. I should not lose them, or worse: get kicked out of this party like a heretic. ‘That is to say, he failed to see through all the layers of the Symbols. Whereas my teacher, she knew.’

‘What is the name of that teacher, O Yusuf the Enlightened?’ whispered the Egyptian girl.

‘Quýnh,’ I said. Lies came not naked, but clothed in thin layers of truth that gave me some consistency. ‘An ancient woman, who had travelled through centuries of time and knew the secrets of Man and God.’

Various listeners nodded, whispers spread throughout the crowd, and another spoke up: ‘Can you – could you travel there now? I mean…’

‘Go ahead, Victor,’ said another man, his tongue thick with alcohol. To my surprise, I recognised Sébastien amongst their little group, nodding and urging the drunk man along. Victor continued: ‘My wife, do you know… is she happy?’

‘She is at peace.’

Victor nodded, eyes glassy with tears. Others clamoured their questions, enquiring about parents, uncles, lovers, friends, long-lost siblings and even Napoleon. My answers played a delicate balance between reassuring the mourning and offering variety to the crowd. Every other question or so, I sought for Nico or Andromache, but couldn’t spot either of them.

And then –

‘What about my children?’

I locked eyes with Sébastien. As ever, he held a glass of wine in his hands, but he did not radiate drunkenness. His hoarse voice hinted at a sadness he had been hiding from us for decades now but which still fit him perfectly, like a pair of boots shaped just right after endless campaigns, even if they had been left in a cupboard for years.

I sought for some playfulness in his eyes, a wink to let me know this was part of his act.

I found none.

‘They forgive you,’ I said, and watched as his shoulders sagged in relief.

Oh, Sébastien. Maybe we shouldn’t be in Paris for a while. Next time we came, this entire country should be so changed that nothing here could remind him of those he had lost.

A phrase of Baudelaire flickered through my mind: ‘ _The old Paris is no more. The form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart_.’ What would he have to say about an immortal heart? Why did all poetry assume an end to individuals, but not love or suffering? At this rate, I’d have to write some myself, publish it under another name again, just to give Sebastien something to hold on to…

‘What about Julius Caesar?’ asked someone else, and the crowd dragged me back to the present and my lies and the attempt to keep Nico safe. More and more individuals asked about historical figures, some of whom I remembered. Knowing my audience and the fond memories I had of her, I confirmed Joan of Arc as surrounded by happiness. Bertrand du Guesclin feasted in justice. Others – not so much. I watched the face of a middle-aged man fall in disappointment when I informed him that Robespierre was curled up in a ball of eternal regret, and announced to cheers the state of Rodrigo Borgia. With the topic of their own loved ones firmly behind us, I began to enjoy my position as gatekeeper between the world of the living and the dead, ramping up my volume and gestures and stories every time the audience toed the line of disinterest.

As I played the crowd, Sébastien got up and left for the balcony, where I thought I could see the green silk of Andromache’s robes. Good. At least they were accounted for. Now I just needed Nico to come back…

Luc had returned, at least. He paused to study me, lingering at the edge of my audience, a familiar twist playing around his lips, as I informed everyone that Pope Urban had learnt the error of his Crusade-inducing ways.

‘What about my family?’ Luc asked. He stepped forward, the crowd parting to make way for his swagger.

I cocked my head. ‘Which part of your family?’

‘My great-grandfather was hanged as a deserter. Does he feel regret? Peace?’

‘Oh yes, he’s fine,’ I said, brushing away the depressing topic to make space for Luc himself. ‘How about you, monsieur? What do you feel tonight?’

He took a drag from his cigarillo, the cockiness in his every movement so French as to be almost comical, except he was handsome enough to get away with it. ‘I feel hopeful that something incredible is going to happen tonight.’

I opened my mouth to say more, but Luc winked and turned his back to me. He sauntered over to a pale, auburn-haired girl, skimming his fingers down her arm as he whispered something in her ear. Her gasp, the hand that fluttered to her heart, the smile they exchanged, all of it pulsed with the eagerness of young love. For all his drama, it wasn’t difficult to guess the location for Luc’s incredible adventure tonight.

I watched as she flitted past Armand’s round shoulders, delicate like a nightingale escaping towards the balcony. The crowd around me dispersed as well; something about Luc had broken my spell. So much the better. However fun it was, there were only so many ways I could describe non-corporeal experiences of people in an imagined afterlife without repeating myself. I accepted a glass of lemony water from one of the waiters and joined Armand by the window, where he held out a thick cigar.

‘You should have told me,’ he said, as I took my first drag.

I held up my hand and he fell silent. With my eyes closed, I savoured the rich tones of the smoke crawling back up through my throat, filling my mouth with their luxurious heaviness. Armand might be a superstitious fool and middling artist, he did understand the small pleasures in life.

When I exhaled and rejoined the party in spirit as well as body, Armand angled his piece of paper so I could see it. The invitation I’d given him at the start of the night, now with Andromache and Sébastien added. I glanced up, just as Luc’s girlfriend left the balcony, where the silhouettes of my friends stood out against the starry sky like the beautiful, incredible, mystical people they were.

‘Again, after seeing them so often in your sketches, I couldn’t help but try my hand. A handsome troop of models you have, Yusuf.’

‘Birds of a feather,’ I said.

Sébastien opened the balcony doors and walked past without acknowledging us. Although still pale, he had a spring in his step that reassured me. The alcohol must already be clearing from his bloodstream. Still, he shouldn’t be in this city. Paris adored wallowers and crowned them ‘artists’ and ‘philosophers’ without searching for a solution beyond the sophistication of pain. Sébastien thrived too well here.

Armand chuckled and took another drag of his cigar. ‘Will you be in the Atelier on Monday? Now that I know…’ He gave me a meaningful look, which I struggled to meet with honesty, ‘I would like to discuss some of my paintings with you. And have a closer look at yours.’

‘I might be. There are some rumblings that we might leave Paris for a while,’ I said. ‘Go south, catch some sun.’

‘Your servant –’ Again, a meaningful look, though this time my grin was wholly truthful, ‘– he is Italian?’

‘Genoa,’ I confirmed. ‘Though it gets bloody cold there in winter. I was more thinking Puglia, maybe Athens. Seville. Somewhere I can pluck the oranges from the trees and the mist doesn’t creep into my bones.’

‘Lucky bastard.’

I spotted Nicholas across the room, unharmed or fully recovered. ‘I am, yes. Very lucky.’

Yet something was wrong. Nicholas’ lips were set in a firm line, and even though he hurried towards us, he kept looking around, searching.

I excused myself to Armand, who sent me off with a gesture of his cigar, and met Nicolò in the middle. His suit was pristine: no cuts, bullet holes, tears or anything that betrayed a fight. _Thank Al_ –

‘We need to leave,’ he said, not meeting my gaze, eyes darting around the room. ‘Where’s Sébastien?’

‘He went through there, I think,’ I said, nodding at the door we had initially arrived through.

Nicholas cursed – a particularly old Genoese sailor’s blasphemy I had not heard since the Reformation – and clasped my arm. ‘Get Andromache. I’ll meet you both at Le Chat Noir.’ His fingers squeezed my bicep, tender and urgent at the same time, and he disappeared.

I took another drag of my cigar and sauntered back to the balcony. Armand had since left, but Andromache was still there, silent and timeless as ever. She glanced up when I joined her by the banister, her fingers playing with one of her many necklaces. The one she’d got from Quýnh.

‘Time to go, boss.’

‘Finally.’ Her impatience failed to disguise the tremor in her voice, but a momentary glare ordered me not to question, not to comment, and not to remember.

‘Nico is getting Sébastien,’ I said. As we crossed the room to the exit, I stuck to the shadows as much as possible, lest one of my admirers caught sight of me and demanded another view into the netherworld. ‘They’re meeting us at Le Chat Noir. We could stop by Alphonse’s on the way, pick up some baklava?’

That caught her attention. Hooking her arm through mine, she said, ‘The first sensible idea I’ve heard since we’ve arrived here. Let’s go.’

The porter tipped his hat at me as we approached, his eyes wide with wonder. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I leaned in closer and told him, ‘That thing you were wondering about? Is going to be just fine.’

I winked, and he made the sign of the cross three times over, fumbling with the lock until the door swung open. With all the pomp and patience I could muster, I strode over the threshold, only to drop all my grace the moment the lock clicked shut behind us.

‘Andro?’

‘What?’

‘Last one down has to pay for food.’

I didn’t have to say that twice. Andromache and I dashed down the stairwell, two flashes of red and green against the marble, until she cheated and jumped down the final flight, her skirt billowing behind her. By the time I joined her, she was breathing heavily and grinning.

Paris and baklava were waiting for us tonight. And tomorrow? Who knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Wondering what was on Andy's mind? Hop over to 'Six of Wands' to find out! Alternatively, keep an eye out for 'Heavier than stones', which shows Booker's night. And if you could spare a second to share your thoughts in a review, that would make my day!


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